I Thought You'd Never Ask
by ABakerStreetIrregular
Summary: Sherlock enjoys an answered prayer.


S/J

oOo

Sherlock came home full of news about the case he'd just solved, taking the stairs two at a time and bursting into the sitting room with a swirl of his coat and a thousand watt by-Christ-I-am-amazing smile, and knew immediately that the tidy, silent flat was lacking his favorite audience.

Oh.

Right, John was out with his mates from the Army tonight. They'd been planning it for ages, John said, and he'd been so excited to go. Sherlock sagged at once, deflated and more than a bit jealous, and boredom crashed over him in a wave. After a moment's thought, he set about doing all the things he did when the flat was empty of John and he was bored.

He made himself a cup of tea and let it get cold, nibbled disconsolately on a chocolate biscuit, not tasting it. There were experiments that needed tending, but they were never as much fun when John wasn't complaining about the smell, or the fact that Sherlock had burnt yet another hole in the worktop, or how everything in the refrigerator was beginning to taste faintly of the formaldehyde the latest head had been pickled in. He changed his clothes, from suit to the sleep pants, soft grey tee and blue robe, and lay down on the sofa, tried to read, but not even ' _Collapse_ ' by Jared Diamond was enough to occupy him, so he laid the book aside and closed his eyes, let his mind drift, listened to his brain, followed wherever it led…

It took him to the same place it had been taking him for over a year now, straight to John.

John, stiff with anger as he scolded him mercilessly, accused him of being unfeeling, teeth bared in a bitter grin and deep blue eyes sparking beautifully.

John, chin cradled in his perfect, deadly right hand, patient as Sherlock paced and raged about the collective IQ of the Yard being less than that of the common goldfish.

John, broad shoulders delicious in that brick-colored shirt, listening and so concerned, as Henry Knight spoke of the demon Hound of Baskerville.

John, reading quietly at the breakfast table, with tea and a biscuit near at hand. He took a bite of the biscuit and the narrow mouth, sharp even white teeth, and the wet velvet of the tongue beyond them was mesmerizing.

John, hoisting him up from the floor with surprising ease and pushing him back into his bed, where the feeling of his hands lingered on Sherlock's ribs and at his hip long after the soft sigh from his phone had faded from his ears.

John, purely imagined now, eager, lips parted for a kiss, tongue tea-sweet and slippery as he pulled Sherlock's hips tight against his own, rutting against him slow and easy, and moaning into Sherlock's mouth as he felt the hard length of Sherlock's cock through his trousers.

John, neck bent back in offering so Sherlock could taste, bite and kiss. Too lovely, the simple thought of being able to fill all his senses with John. To nuzzle into the tender spot just at the point of his jaw and smell soap and shampoo and _John_ , press his mouth against the smooth flesh where his thigh met his body, lick and taste salt and musk while he watched John squirm and moan under his hands, skin hot and rosy gold.

John. How he would love to have him warm and pliant and naked, stripped of the practical jackets, sensible jumpers and check shirts, so he could wrap him up, cage him in with arms and legs, keep him so he could pay homage, glut himself.

"Jesus," Sherlock hissed, eyes tight shut and teeth sunk in his lip, thigh muscles tightening and breath hitching in his throat as he let this vision play on.

Sherlock knew John was bisexual. After the rather charming and mildly clumsy way John had chatted him up that first night at Angelo's, and the few lingering and appreciative glances he'd seen John cast in the direction of his own sex, and at Sherlock himself, there could be no doubt. How foolish had he been, so wrapped up in the case, to turn him down flat that night? Much as he would have liked to make his lazy fantasies a reality now, when they knew one another so much better, the thought of putting their friendship at risk, well, he couldn't consider it.

Still, where was the harm in this?

He'd just pushed his hand down on the front of his pants, lazily palming his half-hard cock through the thin cotton, when the sound of the street door opening with exaggerated slowness and then closing again with the same considerate care sent all his gentle thrums of pleasure at these last heated thoughts spinning away. It was John, of course, come home at last.

Thank God. He was too grateful for distraction, no, too grateful to have John home again, to regret the lost fantasies. There would always be time for that later.

The tread on the stairs was unsteady, a scuffling drag on each step. _Slightly drunk_ , Sherlock thought as a low murmur of words reached his ears. It was John's voice certainly, rich and warm, with a little bit of a growl, but who could he be talking to? Had he brought someone home with him? No, Sherlock thought as he listened again, there was no answering voice.

No, wait, was he singing? Sherlock listened, and had you looked at him very closely just then, you might have seen the very slight twitch of him pricking up his ears and the more obvious signs of the barely there smile curving his lips. His eyes narrowed in cat-like contemplation, what was this quaint little ditty John was tipsily crooning? If he had to hazard a guess, he would have said it was a drinking song from World War 1, and it sounded like a colorful one, at that.

" _Private Jones came home one night,_

 _full of beer and very tight._

 _He'd been out all day upon a spree…"_

The slow footsteps climbed closer and closer but the singing never got any louder, so Sherlock, fascinated, got up and crept toward the door to hear. He almost had his ear pressed to the wood when it opened and he had to jump back as John lurched unsteadily into the room.

His sandy hair was mussed, cheeks a little pink, and his eyes were bright and slightly unfocused. He was, Sherlock thought, probably quite a bit more intoxicated than he let on. This in itself was not particularly shocking, what was shocking was John's attire.

Black jacket, the deep blue cashmere jumper Sherlock had given him for Christmas over a paler blue check shirt, black combat-style boots, black socks and a kilt in what could only be the Watson tartan. Broad blue stripe on a deep green field with red shot through. The length of bare leg between the top of his sock and the hem of the kilt was stunning. He'd never imagined the sight of a man's well-turned knee could be so…stimulating. Granted, it was John Watson's well-turned leg he was currently ogling, that had to be the difference. He snapped his eyes back up, grateful when he saw John hadn't noticed.

John only smiled muzzily, eyes crinkling when he saw Sherlock, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile back. Better still, John kept right on singing.

" _He bumped into Sergeant Speck,_

 _flung his arms around his neck_

 _and in his ear he whispered tenderly,_

' _Kiss me goodnight, Sergeant Major'_

With this he beamed at Sherlock, pitched forward and did just as the song said, breath soft as it purled against Sherlock's ear. He had stiffened as John's arms wound round his neck, muscles tensing as he was suddenly bearing the smaller man's far from unwelcome weight. Looking down at John, warm and very real in his arms, the temptation to give in to answered prayers was too much, so Sherlock also took a cue from John's song.

"I thought you'd never ask."

He lowered his head and pressed his mouth to John's. There was the brief sharp sound of indrawn breath as John's eyes widened, looked into Sherlock's still open ones, then he made a small noise in his throat, closed his eyes and on tip-toe, pushed himself up into the kiss.

Bliss.

It was so much more than he had imagined, this kissing John Watson, and so much better. He smelled of good whiskey and cologne, something warm and peppery that filled Sherlock's head and made him giddy. John was so perfectly, deliciously warm, the heat soaking through Sherlock's thin pajamas and making him realize how cold he was. As he felt himself straightening, tugging John closer to soak it in, a small sound of pleasure bubbled up from his throat and John smiled into their kiss.

He drew back long enough to eye Sherlock speculatively. The bitten lip, rosy flush over his cheeks, pupils swelled so all they left was a thin rim of bright silver, not to mention the very telling something that was pressing into John's belly just above the top of his sporran…

"Oh, like that, is it?" He said huskily, a little surprised, then teasing, with narrowed eyes, "I think you missed me."

Sherlock puckered thoughtfully, one eyebrow cocked and eyes shuttered, and leaned down, clearly wanting nothing more than to return to that kiss, but John drew back.

"So what if I did?" Sherlock said, sulking prettily when he saw he was being denied, but he couldn't have been too cross because he seized the lapels of John's jacket, pulled him close again and growled, "Shut up and kiss me."

John's eyes were suddenly hot, and his smile was something Sherlock found lovely and dangerous.

"Fine."

 _Bold, wonderful John_ , Sherlock thought triumphantly, _you never disappoint_.

John had no hesitance when it came to what he wanted, and if the sudden and almost eye watering handful of curls and perfect tight grip on the back of Sherlock's neck were any indication, what he wanted just then was to get as close to Sherlock as he could. He pulled Sherlock down, kissed him hard and deep, paying particular attention to that pillowy lower lip, and slapping the hands away from the lapels of his jacket so he could peel it off and drop it in the floor. It was only when he began to get a crick in his neck that he backed off long enough to rasp, "Your room?"

Sherlock's answering nod, with the blue robe half off his shoulders and his inky curls wrecked, lips plump and pink from John's kisses and eyes heavy with want, was enough to make all the blood flee John's brain and rush straight to his cock. He looked entirely debauched and they'd barely started.

John wondered how far would Sherlock let him go, but hadn't much time to ponder any one of the myriad possibilities that charged immediately through his brain, because Sherlock's thin fingers had wrapped round his wrist so he could all but drag him down the hall to his bedroom.

The bedside lamp was on, and John had a bare moment of time to think the dim room was just as tidy and Spartan as he imagined it would be, but really, all he had eyes for was Sherlock, who tugged him in again, bending his long spine to gain a better angle for more of his sharp kisses. His hands were pulling up John's jumper, tugging his shirt free to get his hands on naked skin, press into the deep crease of his spine and sliding down to get a two flattering handfuls of John's ass.

He backed up, pulling John with him until his knees hit the edge of the bed, about to sit when John stopped him, reluctantly tearing himself away from those beautiful greedy hands that glorious mouth and hoping he might get to put it to some better use.

"Wait."

He bore Sherlock's frown of impatience well, because the expression lifted when John started to shuck his clothes and boots. Sherlock was riveted, eyes sharp as little by little John revealed himself, and he answered John's actions by hastily taking off the robe and his t-shirt.

Soon stripped down to just the kilt, John stood back enough that Sherlock could see nearly all of him, lovely ridges of bone and curving muscle, the cruel scar at his shoulder. He could see Sherlock's brain working over why he left just the kilt on, and the spark that lit his eyes when he knew.

"I thought you'd be curious."

"Indeed, what do the Scots wear under their kilts?" Sherlock mused as he sat, motioning John to come and stand between his spread knees, close enough to touch, to press his face to the warmth of John's belly, breathe him in, get a pinch of skin between his teeth and bite, curl his fingers round the back of John's bare legs and drag them up, up, up.

How wonderful to see firsthand, to get to touch, all the things about John's body that were so different from his own. The compact solidity of him and the very slight roundness of his belly, the long muscles of his thighs and the soft, sparse blonde hair that covered them, the brave heart that pounded under his cheek and the way John gasped and laughed throatily when Sherlock pressed his thumbs into the baby soft skin of his hip.

Meanwhile John's hands roamed Sherlock's naked torso, cradled the back of his elegant neck and carded through the sooty curls, gripping hard when one of Sherlock's hands found John's cock at last, giving it one long slow tug, and dragging his thumb across the head.

"Oh, God," John rasped, knees wobbling as he curled himself over Sherlock's shoulders.

"Take this off," Sherlock commanded, voice husky as he began tugging at John's kilt.

John moved to obey, eyes on Sherlock lips, then he looked pointedly at Sherlock's sleep pants.

"Off," he said, in a voice that made Sherlock think of John pulling rank at Baskerville. "Fair's fair."

Sherlock stood up, long white fingers plucking the drawstring loose, and let the pants slip off his hips and puddle at his feet. He colored slightly at the frankly admiring look on John's face, then frowned at the fact that John's hands had ceased working his buckles and were reaching for him.

Sherlock's cock was hard, hot and ruddy against the white skin of his belly, and when John wrapped his left hand around it a shudder passed through them both. When, with his other hand, he cupped Sherlock's balls and rolled them gently in his palm as he began to stroke his cock, the effect was electric. Sherlock reached out, eyes shut tight as his hips stuttered forward, pushing his cock further into John's fist, then he gave a little "Ah!" before he cupped John's face in his hands, ducked his head to kiss him, lips soft and surprisingly sweet.

This sight was almost enough to make John throw the man down on the bed and take him right there, and no one would have blamed him for his enthusiasm. How often had he thought of this very thing, having Sherlock in his hands, smooth and white and stroked to purring, and now here it was before him and he thought his brain would overheat with all the possibilities. Best to start small, he thought, so he surged up into Sherlock's kiss and his clever surgeon's hands continued their work, and all the little moans and sighs he wrung from him only served to fuel the fire burning in his gut.

At last they fell upon the bed in a naked tangle, all twining legs and eager grasping hands. There were sweet and desperate kisses, tweaks and pinches and the finding of all those places that made them both gasp and sigh. Sherlock had his face buried in the curve of John's neck, kissing and sucking the blood to the skin while John had his hands full of the curves of Sherlock's round ass and was grinding against him. The friction of his cock against the sparse trail of hair on Sherlock's belly was glorious, and the third time Sherlock growled some little plea for mercy in his ear John thought that he might just die from the mingled lust and affection he felt. That and the fact that his cock was so stiff it was aching, and he was still a little drunk, but Sherlock, as always, read him perfectly.

Sherlock hadn't had a great deal of sex in his life, but he knew those things that felt good to him must certainly please his partner, so he went with instinct, bestowing one last luscious kiss on John's mouth before sliding down the bed and unceremoniously swallowing his cock in one fluid motion.

"Oh, God," John said again, only he thought he might have shouted and dimly hoped Mrs. Hudson was indulging in her soothers this evening.

Sherlock's left hand sought John's right and their fingers twined together, while his right circled the base of John's cock and he proceeded to do things with his tongue that nearly had John off the bed and coming right then. His free hand was in Sherlock's hair, trying so hard not to push down, to hold him and fuck up into that perfect wet heat, but then he looked down, saw the slide of his flesh between Sherlock's red lips. Then their eyes met and suddenly he was pulling those thick curls and gasping out a warning Sherlock took no heed to, only closing his eyes again and giving a little moan in answer as he swallowed John all the way down, hollowing his cheeks and holding on as John's body arched off the bed and he came with a shout.

Sherlock suckled John's cock luxuriously until John couldn't bear it anymore, though he was loathe to make him stop, and once he had his breath back he pulled Sherlock up and kissed him. They sat like that for a few long moments, feeling their galloping hearts and exchanging kiss after kiss, but Sherlock's cock was hot and heavy against John's hip, and John reached for him again.

With the first long slow stroke it was Sherlock's turn to curse, his face is John's neck while he whispered soft blasphemy in John's ear that made him curse his age and alcohol consumption, because as pretty as this was, he wanted to know what Sherlock sounded like when someone fucked him, no, when _John_ fucked him. When the flow of words ceased and Sherlock's breath began falling out of him in ragged little pants, John held him, offered hot endearments, how beautiful he was, how much he had wanted this, and that John didn't want to see anything in the world as much as he wanted to see Sherlock fall to pieces.

Sherlock obliged, neck bent back and mouth open on a quiet moan as he rode out the waves of his own little death at John's hands.

oOo

A bit later found them cleaned up and curled neatly together in Sherlock's bed. Sherlock had demanded that clothes be left out of the equation, and John had smilingly acquiesced, loving the thought of someone being greedy for him, and the thought of waking up with a warm naked Sherlock didn't hurt his feelings either.

They'd almost settled into sleep when Sherlock felt John shaking with laughter.

"Mmmm?" Sherlock hummed in inquiry, sleepy and sated, twined around John like a vine and with his nose buried in the soft hair at John's nape.

John took Sherlock's hand from its new and proprietorial place on his hip and held it, pulling Sherlock closer.

"Took you long enough."


End file.
